


Playing Dirty

by flammablehat



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-11
Updated: 2011-06-11
Packaged: 2017-10-23 14:00:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/251091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flammablehat/pseuds/flammablehat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur's not a prude, but he does think the number of times he's walked in on his flatmates having at it probably qualifies them for some sort of general obscenity charge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playing Dirty

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [](http://kinkme-merlin.livejournal.com/profile)[**kinkme_merlin**](http://kinkme-merlin.livejournal.com/) prompt: [Arthur/Gwaine, Arthur/Merlin - The three of them are flatmates: Merlin and Gwaine make a bet on who would make Arthur come first, both giving him an handjob. Merlin cheats when [he] starts whispering veeery dirty things in Arthur's ears.](http://kinkme-merlin.livejournal.com/23407.html?thread=22959215#t22959215) I may have played it a little fast and loose with the prompt. Gwaine isn't the most biddable of the Knights, to be sure. Lightning fast and on-point beta and Brit-pick provided by the lovely [](http://kathkin.livejournal.com/profile)[**kathkin**](http://kathkin.livejournal.com/). Any remaining cock-ups are my own. Thanks again for your help, bb!

Arthur's not a prude, but he does think the number of times he's walked in on his flatmates having at it probably qualifies them for some sort of general obscenity charge.

"Afternoon lads," he sighs, shrugging off his bag and scarf and coat to the accompaniment of Gwaine's deeply enthusiastic slurping.

"A-ah- _ah_ —" Merlin says, scrabbling over his head to grip at the back of the sofa. Gwaine's mouth remains too preoccupied to reply.

"Oi," Arthur frowns, "claws off of the suede, idiot," and he swats Merlin over the head with the mail just in time to get himself snared when Gwaine does something miraculous with his tongue (by the sound of things, anyway) and Merlin tightens like a drawn bowstring, gripping Arthur's wrist in one hand and trying to muffle his helpless whines with the other.

It occurs to Arthur that most people would probably find holding their best mate's hand while he comes at least a touch more awkward than Arthur does, but he only feels mild annoyance and that just makes him peevish. Gwaine doesn't help matters when he decides he's done a satisfactory job of polishing Merlin's spent dick to lean back and nod his thanks.

"Incorrigible hair-puller, this one," he says, a telling roughness creeping around his consonants.

"You love it." Merlin grins.

"Yes, well. Glad to be of service," Arthur says, clipped, shaking off Merlin's drowsy hold and retreating to his room.

He doesn't know where he found this sudden snit he's quickly sinking into, or why he’s tempted to blare some really obnoxious porn to prove some kind of, of _point_ , but sink he does — though he exercises self restraint on the way and opts to put on his headphones. After all, in addition to not being a prude, neither is he a shameless twat.

+++

When it first started happening Arthur didn’t want to be _that_ guy, the guy who got all weird about his friends shagging, especially in a world where his discomfort could be misconstrued as latent homophobia inherited from his father’s truly enlightened political platform (Morgana always reflected that Uther would drown children for an equivalent payoff in votes, and while Arthur wasn’t _that_ disenchanted with his father’s moral compass, he did have a solid enough grip on reality to understand where she was coming from).

Anyway, Arthur spent so much time vehemently expressing how ‘okay’ he was with Merlin and Gwaine’s shenanigans that at some point _okay_ must have adopted an additional definition in their household that suggested _active interest_ and really, a big damn line is demanding to be drawn.

“For fuck’s sake,” he says, stumbling through the door with his eyes closed because he could hear them from the hallway. “Don’t either of you have jobs?”

“Arthur!” Gwaine greets him brightly. “Glad you’re back — you just missed a phone call. Sounded important.” He punctuates this statement with a slap to Merlin’s arse. Merlin growls. Arthur silently prays for patience.

“Did you happen to catch a name?” He says, staring at the ceiling. “A phone number? A clue as to the nature of the call?”

“Well,” Gwaine hedges, pausing in his thrusting because apparently he can’t think and fuck at the same time. Not that that’s a real surprise. “No.”

Now would be the time for Arthur to walk away, possibly out of the flat. Grab a pint. Breathe deeply. Remind himself that an urgent call could mean a number of things coming from Gwaine, like a reminder that his books are due at the library and not, say, the call he’s been anticipating from his advisor on his thesis proposal. Or a ring from his father (and he actually flinches at the thought of Gwaine answering the phone while he’s balls deep in Merlin’s arse — _Christ_ ). Leaving would also give him the opportunity to revisit his stance on the evils of technology and consider investing in a mobile phone so things like this will never happen again.

But he makes the mistake of glancing in their direction and notices Merlin writhing against the sofa in a desperate bid for friction because Gwaine hasn’t resumed his thrusting yet...because he seems to be enjoying Merlin’s writhing. And that sets Arthur right off — he shouldn’t have to entertain these kinds of thoughts and he shouldn’t have to anticipate or make allowances for the fact that the common room has become the staging area for someone else’s sex life—

“—or have to tell you more than once that the sofa is bloody suede; do you know how much upholstery cleaning costs, you fucking wankers?” he shouts, flinging loveseat cushions until Gwaine heaves Merlin up against his chest to shield himself and there’s nothing left but expensive or breakable things to chuck at them anyway.

“Is it weird that this isn’t harshing my arousal at all?” Merlin stage whispers over his shoulder and earns a hastily-shed hoodie to the face for his thoughts.

+++

Given his spectacular reaction of the previous day, Arthur isn’t expecting a peace overture any time soon. Not to say he was overreacting _or_ to suggest he doesn’t deserve an apology - he just doesn’t expect one.

Nevertheless, he’s sitting on the loveseat throwing the occasional poisonous glare the sofa’s way in between highlighting paragraphs of his textbook when the offering is made. Gwaine plops down on his left; Arthur ignores him. Merlin sidles his arse onto an armrest and tucks his socked feet beneath a pillow.

“What.” Arthur pauses, breathing through his nose.

“We’re worried about you,” Merlin says.

“You’re very tense lately,” Gwaine adds.

Arthur bestows upon them both the most incredulous look his face is capable of composing.

“Is everything alright?” Merlin presses. “How are your classes coming?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” Arthur says, all manful forbearance, waving a hand. “I’m drowning in Derrida, my father’s threatening to disown me, I still haven’t heard from Cambridge concerning my admissions status and I’m surviving largely on vending-machine coffee and crisps, but I’m grand. Oh, and I haven’t spoken to Sophia in three weeks because I can’t find ten minutes just to let her know I’m still alive, but that’s okay. Because apparently I live in the midst of a great, gay, semi-constant porno and I’ve got all the sex I’ll ever need to see right here in the sitting room!”

Even Arthur can tell his grin is pegging genuinely manic heights by the way it feels, to say nothing of Merlin and Gwaine’s matching stares.

“Worse than we thought, then?” Gwaine says, and Arthur doesn’t know what he’s talking about until Merlin says “Yep.”

Arthur points to the door. “Get out, please.”

“Arthur, we were going to suggest—” Merlin begins; Arthur cuts him off with an emphatic jab of his arm.

“Out!”

They file towards Gwaine’s room like scolded children. Arthur returns to his textbook, wielding his highlighter with especial viciousness.

+++

Gwaine makes an independent attempt at communication the next time, which is all to the good, because Arthur probably wouldn’t have been able to forgive himself if he’d punched Merlin in the jaw.

Gwaine, on the other hand—

“I see the gym has fallen off your priority list too, hmm?” he says, but he’s rubbing at a rapidly purpling mark and wincing, the fucking liar.

And alright, in most cases hauling off and hitting someone probably _is_ an overreaction, even if that someone is Gwaine (who’s lucky he’s still pretty considering the action his face has gotten over the years), but he actually had the nerve to invite Arthur to join them sometime. As in, Merlin and Gwaine. Merlin _and_ Gwaine. While they are shagging.

Arthur would be impressed at his balls if he wasn’t so busy restraining himself from beating the ( _visible_ from _space_ ) point they both manage to keep missing into Gwaine’s head.

+++

Merlin catches him in a more accommodating mood because Merlin is a wily bastard who gets him drunk before propositioning him.

“I don’t understand why this is happening,” Arthur says, dropping his head into his hands.

“We just want you to relax,” Merlin gestures, expansive and sorrowful. “That, and I may have bet Gwaine I could make you come faster.”

“Probably,” Arthur unthinkingly agrees, slumping.

+++

“You did _what_?” Arthur shouts through his hangover.

Merlin physically shrinks away from the noise. “Ow.”

“Too late for it now, mate. Challenge accepted.” Gwaine has never looked more smug, and Arthur once bailed him out of jail for inciting a riot at an all girls school.

+++

Gwaine makes a big production about being a gentleman and letting Merlin go second _‘so he’ll know the time to beat’_ and Merlin only taunts him in return, laughingly calling him a transparent cockslut and a shameless attention-grubbing whore, making Arthur revise his opinion on the myth of Merlin’s (relative) innocence from behind the pillow he’s pressed to his face.

Gwaine doesn’t waste any time, folding between the V of Arthur’s legs and pulling him down the sofa by his knees. The ungainly sprawl is unsettling, the eager way his jeans are peeled from his hips nothing short of alarming. He doesn’t expect to get hard by either of their attentions, which was the only reason he finally relented to letting them try, hoping futility would go further toward dampening their efforts than blind resistance.

And at first he’s right, because this has to be the most painfully embarrassing sexual encounter he’s ever sat through, peering between his fingers while Gwaine unsuccessfully tries to coax some interest out of his shy, flaccid cock.

Merlin, perched on the arm of the sofa, begins to oh-so-quietly hum to himself – as if he’s _bored_. He swings a stopwatch (which Arthur fervently hopes is just for show) in lazy loops, appearing untouched by the mortification flooding the living room like mustard gas.

Gwaine shoots Merlin a dirty look, fingers stilling, then turns back to Arthur. “Bugger it,” he shrugs, and feeds three quarters of Arthur’s dick into his mouth with a swirl of his tongue. Arthur might’ve hit the ceiling with the force of his surprise, only he’s found himself quite suddenly tethered and wide-mouthed and a little overwhelmed, because _Hello_ those are Gwaine’s incisors gently ushering his foreskin back and forth across his glans.

Merlin sighs something about Gwaine being a filthy cheat but his eyes are twinkling. Gwaine hums his agreement, shoulders lifting, then sets to work sucking Arthur’s spinal column out through his prick. He isn’t demure about it either, building up a tidal sort of rhythm where he buries his head in Arthur’s lap, swallowing almost _cheekily_ around the tip, drawing up and off in bobbing increments until just his tongue is left to grapple with the flared ridge of pulled-taut foreskin before sinking down and doing it all again.

So. This particular breed of panic feels like being slapped in the face with a wet rag. In the dark. When one is not expecting it. Because either Gwaine is just a world-class blowjob artist or Arthur’s rather more attracted to him than he was previously aware. And oh, _oh_ , that’s not panic, that’s—

“Shit, fuck fuck,” he grimaces, bucking in spite of himself, scowling when Gwaine rides it like a professional, smiling and chuckling around his mouthful and maybe making Arthur’s eyes roll back in his head a bit.

“Not bad,” Merlin allows, like they compete over this sort of thing all the time. For all Arthur knows, they do.

In any case, he’s too hazy to work up a proper strop when they move to help each other out and in the process devirginize the loveseat.

+++

Arthur is trying to project an attitude of calm indifference when Merlin approaches him in the kitchen the following day. Gwaine follows, stretching and looking confident, taking up a casual pose in the corner near the bread bin to watch.

“Ready?” Merlin smiles at him, and Arthur projects very, _very_ insistently when he feels long fingers tug at his fly. “I was a little surprised yesterday,” Merlin goes on, nonchalant, drawing Arthur’s cock from his trousers and pants without bothering to fully push either out of the way.

“About?” Arthur prompts through a mouth gone dry.

“This,” Merlin says, demonstrating with a stroke that takes Arthur from root to tip and half-hard to full-attention in one move. “You’re bigger than I thought you’d be,” he clarifies. Gwaine snorts and throws his head back while Arthur flushes rather uselessly and adjusts his stance.

“Thanks,” he says, lacking a superior comeback.

“More enthusiastic, too,” Merlin goes on, tightening the ring of his fingers. A funny little look passes over his face and he pauses, reaches over Arthur’s shoulder to pump a few squirts of hand lotion into his palm (Gwen got it for them; it came as a set with the lemon-scented hand-soap) before continuing where he left off. He doesn’t bother to warm the lotion in his hands first and Arthur jerks, a shocked little sound squeaking past his control.

“Credit where it’s due,” Gwaine leers. Merlin acknowledges him with a tilt of his head.

“For as much practice as your mouth gets—” Arthur says waspishly, trailing off on a _‘nngh’_ when Merlin squeezes and twists at the same time.

“Oh, that’s lovely.” Merlin’s eyes rake every inch of him, from the slippery red bulb of his cockhead to his face. He watches Arthur’s eyes when he flicks his wrist, skin slapping together in a wet patter that sends heat crawling up Arthur’s neck in sheer mortification and helpless lust. “Yeah, you know that sound, don’t you Arthur?” Merlin grins, leaning in to Arthur’s ear, teeth bared against his skin. “All alone in your room when you can’t sleep because you’re always so damn wound up. Works, doesn’t it? Well, enough to go to sleep, anyway,” Merlin shrugs, tugging, tugging, tugging on Arthur’s dick so he can barely breathe for it. “I’ll tell you a secret, though, Arthur,” Merlin whispers against his temple. “Ask me to tell you a secret.”

“Tell me,” Arthur says with an embarrassing lack of hesitation.

“Sounds so much better when it’s not—” he pauses, _squeezing_ , jerking and then squeezing again, “ _just_ your hand, yeah?”

“Is that an offer or an observation?”

Merlin huffs a breath that sounds like a smile and instead of answering licks a thin stripe around the shell of Arthur’s ear. It’s so perversely erotic, such a cool, wet shock with Merlin’s clever fingers still busily working over his prick, that Arthur surprises himself and starts to come. Merlin slips a quiet gasp into his hair, catching the initial rush in his hands and pulling, thumb playing at the ridge just beneath the blunt, purple cockhead until Arthur unravels against him.

+++

“You,” Gwaine says, low and stately and only a tad hoarse, “are a cheat.”

Merlin just raises an eyebrow. His hands are dripping onto the kitchen tile. Someone is going to have to clean that up, Arthur muses distantly. It would seem that all loftier considerations have been driven from his head.

“Rematch!” Gwaine snaps his fingers, presumably to illustrate his bolt of inspiration.

Funnily enough, and for the first time in a long while, Arthur’s immediate instinct isn’t to introduce Gwaine to the business ends of his six separate textbooks. No.

He smiles, leans a little more heavily on Merlin’s shoulder, says “Certainly, Gwaine. And I’ll tell you what – this time? You can go second.”

  
_Ze End_   


  



End file.
